“Oh my God,” Stevie pressed her back against the front door, and groaned; had she really just done that? With a sense of dread, she forced herself to remember the last few minutes. Two steps from Uncle Bob’s car he had called her back, holding up Ms Hawker’s gift, she had ducked back in, and then — to her horror — had given him a peck on the cheek as a ‘thank you’. Worse still, she had stood on the kerb, and flappily waved away the man who had taken Steve to rugby matches, had bought him an air rifle, and his very first pint of beer. One more step along the road, Stevie thought, and one more Steve would have to retrace when the fortnight was over. She was spending too much time as a girl, if Steve was to stand a chance, she would have to bring him back in the evenings.

After a shower, and wholly unnecessary shave, Stevie dug out the pair of boxer shorts he kept for doctor’s appointments, and a t-shirt of his she sometimes wore to bed. These were not sufficient to cover up Stevie, so she added socks, jeans, and a football shirt. As a final flourish she pulled her hair into the untidy ponytail he favoured, and there he was — in the mirror at least. It was not enough, however, to look like Steve, she had to be him; if only she could remember how.

Over the months, Steve’s visits to the flat had become less and less frequent; Stevie had to think hard to remember a weeknight he had been around. Of course, he was always there for part of the weekend, mostly doing the things Stevie could not - grocery shopping - or would not — cleaning the bathroom. As neither needed to be done that evening, she would have to teach Steve what to do with his spare time.

Opening her sole can of lager - left over from her flat warming party - Stevie switched on the television, and scanned through the channels in search of sport. Finding a football match, she leant back on the sofa, one hand around the can, the other down the front of Steve’s boxer shorts, content that she was perfectly masculine. Five minutes later, Stevie was forced to admit, that she did not like lager, the chanting crowd irritated her, and thanks to her waxing regime, the contents of her shorts, were frankly disappointing.

Until Monday last, no one had suspected she even existed; Steve left her at home each morning, travelled, worked, and shopped, without anyone ever guessing. Of course! The missing element was other people; all Steve needed was someone whose expectations of how he should behave helped him to act appropriately. Who though? She could not go into work now, and the few school friends Steve had kept in touch with, were either gap-year travelling, or already away at university. There was a pub on the corner, but Steve had never been in because he knew he looked underage, which left the supermarket.

Stevie walked almost the entire way on the balls of her feet, two days in heels had ruined her for flat shoes; yet another skill poor Steve would have to relearn. Taking a basket from the stack near the entrance, she stopped for a moment and wondered what she could buy. Her supply of cereal was running low, and she could always stock up on coffee, both of which were kept at the rear of the store. After negotiating the produce section, resisting the urge to buy anything bar a small bag of oranges, she made her way briskly down the central aisle, eyes fixed on the far wall.

Stevie had, however, developed fine peripheral vision for a bargain, and was brought to a dead stop in the clothing department. Hanging at the end of a sale rack, was a black pencil skirt, with a fine blue chalk stripe, it was in her size, and at a price that was practically shoplifting. Coffee and cereal sales suffered a minor setback, as Stevie turned for the checkouts.

“Ah, I remember when I was a size ten,” the middle-aged assistant said wistfully, as she bleeped the skirt over the barcode reader. Stevie toyed with a compliment for her on her fine memory, but thought better of it, smiling sweetly as she handed over a crumpled five pound note. “Keep off chocolate, that’s what did for me” the assistant wagged a cautionary finger, adding as Stevie walked away, “and have a good evening, Miss.”

For the second time that evening Stevie pressed her back to the door, and groaned. She had gone out in search of Steve, and had returned with a new skirt, after being mistaken for a girl. Later on, she would find a few crumbs of comfort amidst the orange peel on the coffee table; the assistant had not used her glasses, which had very thick lenses, to look at Stevie, and it was a very nice skirt. Steve drew a hot bath, and consigned Steve to the laundry basket, “I’ll try again tomorrow,” she vowed, as she slipped under the covers.